Deleting, forgetting, regretting
by Piphanss
Summary: Sherlock returns after two years. John says some things he doesn't mean. Sherlock, not being able to handle the words from John, decides to delete every memory about John. He's back to being the cold sociopath, he was, before he met John.
1. Chapter 1

John sat in the flat of 221B Bakerstreet, not really doing anything particularly. It has been two years since the Fall, as John called it, and he was doing better than before. Not good, but better. The first year he had been so full of grief that he had locked himself in his room, crying and hugging Sherlock's pillow. Other than fetching the pillow, he hadn't dared to be in Sherlock's room or touching his stuff. The skull and violin case had after some time collected enough dust to make hundreds of people sneeze. When the smell had finally disappeared from the pillow, John had spent hours crying by himself, not daring to go asleep afraid of the horrific nightmares of the Fall. After some time, Greg had pursuated him to talk to someone and gradually, he became more and more normal. Though he still had his bad days.

Like today. It was the beginning of January - oh how he dreaded January! The birth month of Sherlock Holmes. Whenever it got close to Sherlock's birthday, he would remember the awkward days. John would get up early to make something special, which Sherlock wouldn't touch at all. He would congratulate the birthday-boy and hear the response of how it didn't matter and that he had better things to do. And yet in the evenings when John would give him his present, Sherlock's face would lit up and he would eagerly open the package like a little child. Then at last when John would go to bed, he would hear a soft and deep 'thank you' and it would warm his heart more than any girl, he had dated, had ever managed to.

But today there would be no sour Sherlock, complaining about the meaningless celebration. No eager fingers ripping the wrapping paper apart. No sincere 'thank you' to contradict the otherwise emotionless detective. This was what made John's heart clench like it never had before (excluding the Fall). The lonely Christmases he could take. The empty flat he could handle. But Sherlock's birthday he couldn't manage without the main character. He was usually alone the days before and after the 6th and oddly enough people knew not to bother him at that time. His vacations always seemed to land on those days, and John felt grateful for that. Greg never asked him out to have a drink, and Mrs. Hudson never offered to dust of in that period. He was grateful for all that. But right now, he forgot the gratefulness, his mind lost in old memories.  
As the day went by he didn't leave his chair. He just sat there looking at the empty one in front of him. He didn't cry, and he was convinced, he had no more tears to shed.

The day would have gone by quietly with emptiness filling the old soldier's heart, if it had been the usual. But John knew it wasn't, when he heard the stairs creak. John, however, didn't do anything. This week he was going to think of only Sherlock and their memories, and not bother about unwelcomed guests. Though, his interest perked when the door opened, but he didn't allow himself to turn his head. Whoever had entered didn't close the door and soon John saw a shadow hovering over him. Feeling his curiosity growing stronger by each second, he closed his eyes trying to compose himself. There went a few long seconds before the shadow moved once again. When John thought it had finally left, he settled his gaze upon the empty chair once again. What he didn't expect, was it to be occupied.

John blinked trying to understand that someone was sitting in Sherlock's chair! Though his anger of someone else than Sherlock sitting in that chair, disappeared as soon as he looked closer. Someone was sitting in Sherlock's chair. But that someone was Sherlock. There was no doubt. The usual tired eyes had dark circles underneath them, as though he hadn't slept for years. The usual thin body was nothing but skin and bone, his skeleton clearly visible under the formal clothing. The usual long, dark curls where unevenly cut, and some places even bald. But the doctor in John, that noticed all this, didn't have place in John's mind, as several other questions and emotions ran through him. This wasn't just another dream or hallucination. This was the real, breathing, living Sherlock. Who did nothing but stare at John.

John felt at first relief and happiness, that his friend was back and alive, but those where soon replaced by anger, betrayal and hurt.

"You-" John started in a dangerously low voice.

"_You_-!"

"Do you have _any_ idea, what I've been going through? Hmm?" John finally managed to say in the same low tone as before. When Sherlock didn't answer, but kept staring, John felt the anger take over.

"You have been alive all this time? I have grieved for you! Do you know, how long it took me, just to talk to other people again? I saw you _jump_! I saw the blood! **I FELT YOUR PULSE GONE WITH MY OWN HANDS**! I attended your funeral! And all the while, you where still _alive_! Why? Why did you leave? Why did you jump?" John raged while standing up to hover over the frail supposed-to-be-dead detective, who said nothing, but looked up with apologetic puppy-wide eyes.

"Don't you dare! Don't you _dare_ look at me like that, and expect me to forgive you this easily! Why did you come here?". Sherlock could see the rage in John's eyes and swallowed a lump. He cleared his throat and carefully tried to see if he could voice any words.

"I-" he swallowed another lump.

"I didn't- I mean. I don't-" was all he could say, the guilt making the otherwise talkative detective go cold for words. John chuckled humourlessly.

"So now you have nothing to say, huh? No bragging about how you did it? No reasons for me to go through hell? I guess they were all right. You do not own a single emotion in your body. You're just a machine, unable to feel or to care. Nothing but a _freak_!"

The words echoed more than it should be able to in the small flat. The rage was slowly fading, but not yet enough for John to realize, what he had said. As soon as he had said the words, something had flicked in Sherlock's eyes. He stood out of the chair and looked at John with cold eyes. It was as though someone had flicked a switch, turning Sherlock into the cold, cynical sociopath he had been before, he had met John. The impact of the last word had been to much pain for Sherlock to comprehend, so he had chosen the easy way out: not to feel anything at all. It didn't matter anyway. If John also thought he was a freak, then there was no need to feel anymore. He gave a slight nod, before turning on his heel and walking out of the flat.

It was only when he heard the front door shut, that John came to his senses. The words he had said still echoed in his mind and realization dawned upon him.

"Oh god" he whispered and fell back on his chair. He grabbed his head with a hand as though to make the words disappear. Regret and guilt filled his heart, no sign of the rage he had had before. He sat for a while in silence, thinking the scenario over and over. At last he shook his head to get rid of the regret, calming himself down.

_He'll get around eventually,_ he thought. _It's not like he isn't used to being called that._

John went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, forgetting the guilt completely. He didn't remember the cold look Sherlock had given him, as well as he didn't notice the sudden change of his best friend. The joy of having him back overshadowed the thought of what impact the words had really done.

**...**

Sherlock shut the door to his new flat, that Mycroft had arranged for him. The eager, guilt and hope he had felt before, he left for Bakerstreet, where all gone. Left was a cold façade, similar to the one he had had all those years back. He sat down in the couch, closing his eyes to enter his Mind Palace. He went through every door and every floor, clearing all his memories with John. It was too painful to remember, and being the sociopath once again, he couldn't afford to have emotions. He remembered all the memories in different ways, so that no knowledge would be forgotten. Only John.

He locked the door with multiple locks and uttered a satisfied sigh, leaning back against the couch. Though not long after, he walked out of the apartment once again. He still had two years of not solving any of Scotland Yard's cases to make up for.

**...**

Greg Lestrade was staring at his phone, having just received a text.

_Not dead. Need a case. Text the details. SH_

His mind went to two years before, not really understanding, how he could be alive. Then again, this was Sherlock Holmes, the most clever man he had ever met. If anyone could fake a suicide, it would be him. And it seemed he had. Just to be on the safe side, he decided to text the brother.

_Is there any non-dead detective I should know about? -Greg_

_Perhaps. MH_

That was enough to clear all doubt, and Greg quickly texted the detective back with an address of a murder, he had yet to solve.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg couldn't help the grin, when he saw the faces of his assistents seeing _the_ Sherlock Holmes walking and very much alive. He went to embrace the too thin man, but was surprised, when he dodged. He took it, that Sherlock didn't want to show emotions on a crime scene.

Fair enough.

"Where's the body?" he asked, uninterested in anything else beside the case. As always.

"Right here. A woman in her late 30ies, found by some locals who where just going on their morning stroll. No family or any old records. We can't find any identification either but- hey!" Greg went on, when he suddenly noticed something odd about the presence.

"Where's John?" he asked, still walking beside Sherlock, showing him the way to the victim. They had finally reached her, and Sherlock knelt down beside her to investigate.

"Who?" was his answer. This confused the Detective Inspector to say the least.

"John. John Watson? The one who always accompanies you? Lives in the same flat? Your best friend?" Greg went on, watching Sherlock as he looked at the woman's arms.

"Friend? Don't speak nonsense Lestrade. Since when have that been possible?" Sherlock replied, not really paying much attention to the Detective Inspector.

"Since John! Why are you talking as if, you don't know who I'm speaking of?"

"Even you must have the knowledge to figure that out." He murmured before standing up.

"The victim was killed by an overdose, not taken willingly, she was a run-away and dated the first and the best in need of money, and ended up with a drug-addict who tried to convince her into drugs. Search the usual places and I'm sure you'll find a guy with long, black hair, code name 'Muzzel' taking heroin."

"How'd you know?"

"Easy. There are strands of his hair on her clothes, and going by the blue marks, he's abusive, and is most likely muscular as well. Drug-addicts' code names are often based upon their looks, so it's easy to figure that out."

"What about the heroin?"

"Test her, and see if it isn't heroin in her vains. I'll leave the rest to you" he finished and started to walk off, though Greg wasn't finished.

"Wait! What about John? Has something happened?"

"How many times do you need me to tell you, that I do not know, who you're speaking of." And with that he got into a cab and drove home, leaving Lestrade more than confused. When he had written the report done, and send some samples of the victim's blood, he decided to pay John Watson a visit.

**...**

John was sitting in front of the telly when Lestrade entered the flat. Confused as to why he would be there, John turned off the crappy program and stood up.

"Greg? What's wrong?" he asked gesturing for him to enter.

"I was- uh - just wondering if you'd have any visits today?" He said and tried to be neutral. John felt his heart in his throat. _So he knows too._

"Yes. So he visited you too?"

"Did he- did he seem any different?" Greg asked avoiding the obvious question. This made John frown.

"No... I mean- I was angry at him, so he seemed apologetic, but nothing was different, I think" concern swelled in John's heart. _Is Sherlock alright?_

"But he knew, who you were?"

"What? Yes, of course he knew, who I was! What's going on? What's wrong?"

"To be honest, I don't know. He came to a crime scene today, but when I asked, where you were, he didn't know, who I was talking about. His eyes were hard and cold - it was as though he had never met you!"

John took a sharp breath. _He doesn't know, who I am? What's going on?_

"Did anything happen, while he was here? He didn't seem different in any way?" Lestrade asked again, desperately trying to find the reason for Sherlock's setback.

John shook his head.

"No, he seemed fine then, I mean besides the unusual apologizing gaze. He came in and surprised me, I yelled at him and-" John paused. He murmured something so quietly, that Lestrade didn't catch it.

"What?"

"I- I called him a _freak_" John's legs swayed under the sudden weight on his shoulders, and he fell back on his chair. Finally realizing the impact the word must have done, he grabbed his head in guilt.

"No, I... Why- why did I do that? I was mad, I called him a machine, but he can take that. I thought- I thought he was used to-" John rambled on, trying to find a reason for his choice of words, but found none but rage. Lestrade sighed.

"He's used to being called it by Donovan and Andersson. But you're different John. He looks up to you, worships you. So when you called him that, he really believed he was one. I think the pain caused him to shut down his feelings entirely, not being able to be that hurt. Deleting you was easier than dealing with the pain of a lost friend."

The tears, John didn't think he had, were forming pools on the floor.

"So he doesn't remember me? At all?" John asked with a raspy voice. Lestrade shook his head.

"Not right now, he doesn't. I don't know if he ever will again. We can try to visit him, see if you can talk to him" Lestrade said while grabbing his jacket and opening the door. John nodded, hurrying out after the Detective Inspector, eager to make everything right. He had to.

**...**

John and Lestrade entered the lab in Bart's with hopeful minds. Sherlock was sitting in his usual place, not even bothering to look, who had entered. He knew, anyway.

"Lestrade, hand me those petri dishes would you?" he said, eyes focused on the microscope. Lestrade made a confused sound, not having a clue where they would be placed. John saw this as an opportunity to talk to Sherlock. He went to the shelf and took some petri dishes as required.

"Here" he said and handed them to Sherlock, who looked up, when he didn't recognize the voice. He frowned quizzically.

"Thanks"

"This is John. Dr. John Watson" Lestrade interrupted. Sherlock's eyes widened, when he realized this was who Lestrade had talked about earlier. John however, hoped that it was a sign, that Sherlock remembered him, and he felt his heart lighten. Soon enough Shelock turned back to whatever he was studying, and for a moment, John thought they wouldn't get anything else out of him. That was, until he spoke again:

"Afghanistan or Iraq?". The words where like stabs to John's already broken heart. He didn't try to hide the utter disappointment in his face, but it didn't matter, because Sherlock was too occupied by his experiment. John gulped, trying to steady his voice and keep the tears in chess.

"Afghanistan" he said quietly. Sherlock made an approving sound in his throat, not bothering to look anywhere else. John closed his eyes, trying to maintain the tears, that were threatening to spill. After realizing Sherlock wouldn't be bothered again, he turned around and marched out of the room with Lestrade just behind him.

"I'm sorry John" Lestrade said, just as they left Bart's.

"For what? It was my fault anyway. My own damn _fault_!" He yelled in frustration. People turned to look at him, but right now, he didn't really care. All he cared about was Sherlock. Amazing, brilliant Sherlock, who he had lost 2 years ago, and now lost him again. But this time, it might be for good.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to- I- I'm going home" he finally managed to say to the worried Detective Inspector, who nodded understanding.

"I wonder if he'll ever remember..." Lestrade muttered to himself. Then his face lit up, as he got an idea. He clumsily dialed a number on his phone, and waited impatiently for someone to pick it up at the other line.


	3. Chapter 3

Beep, beep. The loud noise was followed closely by an excited yell.

"Had any luck?" a sweet voice asked the glowing detective.

"Indeed! Look at this Molly! Fascinating!" Sherlock exclaimed having just finished his experiment.

"Where's John? I thought I heard him a moment ago" she asked, studying the room for the detective's right hand. She couldn't help but feel slightly jealous of their relationship, but on the other side, she was happy, Sherlock had let someone in his heart.

"Who? Oh, yes he was here. Why?"

"Oh nothing, it's just I thought he'd be here, considering you just coming back and all" she said with sparkling eyes. She was overjoyed that he had finally returned.

"Why does everyone expect him to be by my side at all times? I don't even know him, I barely just met him!" Sherlock stated, confused that both Lestrade and now Molly had spoken as if that doctor was his friend. _I don't have friends._

At this Molly spun around to face him, shock written in her face.

"What?"

"I said, why does everyone expect-"

"Yes, I heard what you said but- I mean- you two- you've been together for _years_! John has grieved for you when you were gone, and now you say, you don't know him?"

Sherlock frowned. Clearly they had gone mad. How could a man, he'd never met, grieve for his death? His interest perking, he decided, he would look further into this case._ A man I've never met grieves for me_. _Both Molly and Lestrade expects me to have a relationship with him. __**Interesting**__._

Not saying another word, or explaining anything, Sherlock walked out leaving Molly confused and slightly angry on John's behalf. Though, he didn't get far before a black car drove to his side.

_Excellent timing, Mycroft._

**...**

"Welcome back, brother dear" Mycroft said, sitting in a comfortable chair and gesturing for his brother to sit down.

"Skip the fake politeness, and get to the point, Mycroft"

"In a hurry, as always. Very well. A little goldfish told me, that you have been - _confused_ - about certain matters"

"Lestrade being your trusted source" Sherlock snickered back. He saw the wanted effect when his brother's cheeks turned slightly red.

"If you're implying, that Gregory and I-"

"We'll take that another time. Right now I'm more interested in, why I'm not back in Bakerstreet."

"I figured you would move there as soon as you made up with John"

This made Sherlock want to widen his eyes, though he resisted, so his brother wouldn't notice.

"John lived in Bakerstreet?" He asked, trying to sound neutral.

"He _does_. I had expected him to move out after your fall, but he surprised me. He remained put"

Sherlock nodded, satisfied with the new leads to the mystery of John Watson. Standing up, he bid his brother farewell, almost out the door, when Mycroft stopped him.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" said detective turned to look at his brother for a moment.

"_Happy birthday_"

Sherlock made a face, not wanting to be reminded of the tedious celebration. What was there to celebrate anyway?

He went out the door, determined to get to the bottom of the case. Though he didn't have enough clues yet, so he targeted another potential source.

The root of all suspicion.

The very John Watson.

**...**

John Watson didn't realize he had fallen asleep until he was woken by a knock on the door. He had spent hours trying to forget the guilt nagging his heart, while waiting for an idea to turn Sherlock back to normal.

The guilt came crashing back when he opened the door and saw the cold expression on his best friend. Who didn't even know, who he was.

"Sherlock" John gulped.

"Hello John. May I come in?" Not waiting for an answer, Sherlock pushed John to the side, but stopped in the mid of the room. A brief expression of feeling home passed but disappeared quickly again.

"Uh, yeah sure. Come in" John finally said, recovering from the shock. Though it was unnecessary to say so, as Sherlock had already sat down on his beloved chair. John sat down in his, waiting for Sherlock to say, whatever he had come to say.

"I have come to the conclusion, that you and I know each other, and didn't just meet a few hours ago". John felt his heart thump loudly in his chest. Was it possible, that Sherlock remembered?

"Well? Am I right?" Sherlock asked, getting a bit annoyed in his eager to resolve the case. John nodded eagerly.

"You remember?" He asked, hope filling his heart once again.

"No". And there it went down again. The disappointment was almost too much for John, seeing as he kept getting false hope just for it to get shot down immediately. He stroke a hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in both guilt and annoyance that Sherlock didn't remember.

"I assume that we were flat mates, before I disappeared" he continued, and being the great detective, he noticed the flinch John made.

"Yes" he said quietly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"You're disappointed. Over what?"

"Just-" John paused, not wanting to say it to the emotionless detective, who wasn't the Sherlock Holmes he knew.

"Say it! What is it?" Sherlock kept pestering. He yelled slightly, annoying John, and eventually making him so frustrated, he yelled back:

"That you said we were flat mates! Is that really all you could deduce? Nothing about how much I care for you? We're friends Sherlock! Not just strangers living in the same flat!" John breathed heavily, trying to compose himself. Boy, did pre-Sherlock bother him! He nearly cried in frustration. This wasn't right! Sherlock wasn't right! He needed his Sherlock!

"I don't have _friends_" Sherlock answered, not realizing how hurtful that seemed to John. But even so, John was not giving up.

"Yes, you do. You've got me. We've lived together for years, Sherlock. Side by side. I was always with you at crime scenes. We solved them together! I was alone and bored before I met you. You saved me, Sherlock. And when you ju- when you disappeared," John corrected himself "I didn't know what to do. You were gone. My best friend. Gone. I went to your gravestone. I grieved. I didn't touch any of your stuff, because it hurt to much to think about you. And now you're back. When I knew, I couldn't comprehend all the happiness, so I got angry instead. And now you're like this. I did this to you!" John grabbed his head and looked at his feet so Sherlock wouldn't see his tears. But of course, he noticed.

He didn't understand how he wouldn't have remembered John, when it was clear, that he was telling the truth. The sincerity, sadness and guilt in John's face was too real for anyone to fake.

"But why would I forget you?" he asked, now completely convinced that he had known John. John shook his head.

"I didn't- I can't-" John said in a tearful voice. Sherlock felt his own body move, before he could stop it. It moved closer to John, putting a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. Strangely enough, he didn't feel repelled by the touch, like he used to with other people.

"Please, tell me. If you don't, I won't know how to remember you" he said sincerely. John was clearly not like other people. Having known him for years, and still wanting him to remember was enough proof of that. John slowly lifted his head, looking at Sherlock with watery eyes. The sight made Sherlock's heart clench in an unusual way.

"I- you came back, and I was angry, and-" John rambled "I'm sorry, I shouldn't- why did I- I'm sorry"

"Shh, it's alright, just tell me" Sherlock said, for unknown reasons wanting John to stop crying.

"I- I got mad, because you came back. Because you let me grieve. I said- I said awful things. Jeez, I'm sorry, Sherlock! I shouldn't have- I shouldn't-!"

"What did you say?"

"I- I- I called you-"

"Yes?"

"A-"

"Just say it John!"

"A _freak_!"

When he finally said it, John burst into tears. The guilt eating him from the inside. Sherlock couldn't quite understand why that would have made him forget John, but he couldn't help but notice his clenching heart hurting more and more. Though, for John's sake, he tried to brush it off.

"Donovan calls me that all the time, why would that make an impact?"

John shook his head.

"You don't get it. You're pre-Sherlock. You don't know the value of a friendship yet. I taught you that, as you taught it to me"

John stared in Sherlock's eyes, trying to tell him all the memories: the dangerous cases, the boring afternoons and the quiet yet satisfying nights. Sherlock, who had no chance of capturing all the memories in just one look, finally realized how much, he had meant for John. Still meant. John, knowing that Sherlock was back in his sociopath state, was nearly speechless by his next words:

"Then teach me" Sherlock looked honestly into John's eyes, showing that he wasn't joking or teasing. He sincerely meant it.

"What?"

"Surely if you taught me once, you can teach me again the importance of our friendship. Maybe then, I'll know how to remember"

John's eyes lit up, happy that he could finally do something to get his Sherlock back.

"Will you do it?" Sherlock asked, impatient.

"Yes, yes! Of course! I'll do anything!"

"Good. I'll fetch my things and move back in immediately. I assume this was how we got to know each other at first?"

John smiled.

"Yes"

And with that, Sherlock once again moved in with John in 221B Bakerstreet. It was almost like when they first moved in together - except the still nagging guilt in John's heart.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**

Last chapter :-))

Thank you all for reading, favoriting, following and reviewing!

* * *

"_Sherlock_!" John walked into the living room, finding Sherlock by his computer. Said detective looked up when hearing his name.

"_What_ is that in the fridge?" John pointed his finger in the direction of the kitchen.

"Wouldn't the right term be '_who_'?" Sherlock answered with a teasing smirk, which made John shiver.

"I don't care! Just leave the body parts out of the fridge. _Please_" he said with an exaggerated sigh.

"Did I do so before?"

The hesitation was enough answer for Sherlock, causing him to smirk once again.

It was beginning to become more and more like it used to in 221B Bakerstreet. John had almost forgotten that Sherlock didn't remember their time together before, since they had made new memories. It was like years ago: John aware of their friendship, while Sherlock wouldn't admit to himself that he had friends. Sometimes, John would remember the guilt and ask Sherlock if he remembered, but he would answer no.

Another sign, that things weren't the same, were the sign the doctor in John had noticed a few days ago, when Sherlock had returned. His hair had begun to grow, so he had no bald places anymore, but it was still clear, that his hair had been cut uneven. John wasn't sure what to think of it, so he didn't say anything. The bones were still clearly visible, even under the many layers of clothing. John tried to make or order Sherlock's favorites, but he rarely ate it all. The dark circles under his eyes hadn't faded, indicating that Sherlock didn't sleep well if at all.

He didn't realize how bad it was, until one night. He was awoken by a cry, just high enough for him to hear, but low enough for Mrs. Hudson not to notice. Though it was soon followed by many other cries, getting louder and louder each time. John sprinted down the stairs, not caring that he was indecently dressed. He roughly opened the door into Sherlock's bedroom, ready to fight. Yet, he saw no one in the room. He looked to Sherlock, and his heart froze. Strong Sherlock, who rarely showed any emotion lay crying, curled up on the bed. Once in a while he would scream and put his hands to his head, as though to protect it. John didn't hesitate to lay beside him, pulling him close while whispering:

"It's alright. You're alright. You're safe. I promise"

Even in deep sleep, Sherlock heard him and seemed to calm down by the sound of his voice. He reached out a hand and grabbed onto John's shirt, to make sure that he was there. He whimpered slightly and John pulled him closer, holding him tight and still whispering comforting words. Eventually, Sherlock lay still, falling into a deep sleep without nightmares. John stayed by Sherlock's side, hugging him tightly, now more of a comfort to himself. He had to ensure that Sherlock was there, and that he was alright.

_Well, he's obviously not alright with the nightmares he's having. I wonder what he went through in those two years..._ He thought.

_A scream. Blood flowing down his back. He realized it was his own scream. Beatings, knives cutting through his flesh. It hurts. It hurts! The only thing keeping him from giving up, from simply giving in to the darkness, was the memory. The memory of him. Him, standing in front of his gravestone, asking him for one more miracle. For not being dead. So he couldn't. He couldn't give in this easily, when he was waiting for him. Waiting for him to come back. To not be dead. _

_He needed to go home. Home to Bakerstreet._

_Home to John._

_John._

"John!" Sherlock screamed, jolting up in sitting position. He closed his eyes, took deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. He felt something warm shift beside him, and jolted his head in the direction, scared.

"Sherlock?" John said groggily, yawning in the progress. He blinked, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes. When they finally adjusted to the darkness, he couldn't help the gasp escape from his lips.

Sherlock was sitting shirtless, staring with wide, scared eyes at him, still not fully awake. Though, when his eyes met John's, he felt himself relax. But John kept staring. Sherlock looked quizzically at John, wondering why he stared. Then he realized, what he was staring at, was his back. He sighed heavily, and put his head tiredly in his hands.

John stared at the red and white marks covering every inch of Sherlock's back. He couldn't rip his eyes of it. He gently let his hand run down the scars, trying to imagine how much pain, he must've gone through. Sherlock made no attempt to move, so John let his fingers follow every scar, as though he could make them go away by touching them.

"Sherlock..."

"I can't remember you. But I remember everything else. Every scar. Every wound" he slowly turned to face John, exposing his chest, which had one big scar across it.

"I don't know why, but somehow you're different. I remember thinking about you while these were given to me. I remember the urge to come back, but I don't remember why"

John swallowed a lump, imagining Sherlock being beaten but not giving in, because he had to get back.

"I asked you for a miracle. For you to not be dead. Do you remember?"

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he turned away to think. The wheels turned in high speed inside his brain, and finally, he looked like he had solved the case.

"Oh. _Oh_!"

John shifted so he sat next to Sherlock.

"What? What is it?"

"I think I know. I know how to remember you!" He exclaimed, his face lightening up the room. John's smile was wide and more genuine than he had ever smiled in the past two years.

"Go." Sherlock then said, his expression changing drastically and closing his eyes. John furrowed his eyebrows.

"Huh?"

"Go! Out! I need silence to enter my Mind Palace"

John's eyes widened, finally understanding how Sherlock had done it.

"You- you deleted me in your mind palace?" His voice cracked at the last bit.

"No, not deleted. Just locked you away."

"Oh" John gulped again before walking towards the door.

"Wait! Before you go-"

John turned around.

"Thank you" Sherlock said in a very low tone. John, astonished that pre-Sherlock would actually thank him, didn't know what to say, and instead turned to give him the space and time to (hopefully) remember John.

**...**

Sherlock walked through the hallway, looking through each and very door trying to remember, where he had locked John away. He ran through the corridors, frantically opening and searching, then closing and running to the next door. Every door which didn't contain John or any signs of him, made Sherlock more and more panicked.

_Why can't I find him?!_

He ran up stairs, through grand doors and entrances, not finding any signs of John. Just as he was about to give up, to return to reality, he noticed a black staircase in the corner of his eye. Not having noticed it before, because of its brilliant camouflage, he decided that it had to be there.

Carefully he walked down the narrow steps. When he finally met flat ground again, he was consumed in darkness. He let his eyes adjust to the complete darkness and when they did, he saw a metal door with locks on locks. Walking closer, he felt his legs getting heavier and heavier. Whatever was in there, he had obviously made it, so he wouldn't open it too easily. It scared him, but he knew, he had to see it. He had to remember. Remember John.

With a slightly trembling hand, he began to peel the locks off. How long it took, Sherlock wasn't sure, but when he finally reached the hard, metal door, his arms were heavy. He took a deep breath. And then he opened it.

**...**

_Light. Happiness. Adrenalin. John. John._

Sherlock and John running through the streets, capturing a criminal.

John shooting the cabbie to save Sherlock.

Sherlock running to get to John.

John thinking Sherlock's skills are amazing.

Sherlock opening up to John.

John scolding Sherlock for the head in the fridge.

John tied to a bomb.

Sherlock talking to John on the phone.

Sherlock saying goodbye.

John screaming his name.

John asking him for one more miracle.

Sherlock going through torture to go home to John.

Sherlock returning.

John yelling.

_Darkness. Fear. Despair. Agony. Betrayal. Freak. __**Freak.**_

_"Freak's here, bringing him in"_

_"He's a freak"_

_"Don't get close to that freak"_

_"You're just a machine, unable to feel or care. Nothing but a __**freak**__!"_

_Nothing but a __**freak**__! Nothing but a __**freak**__! Nothing but a __**freak**__!_

_Freak, freak, freak, freak, __**freak**__!_

John calling him a freak.

_John! __**His**__ John! Calling him a __**freak**__!_

Sherlock suffocating.

Sherlock hurting.

Sherlock crying.

Sherlock forgetting.

_No. No! I can't forget! I mustn't!_

_Think of John! You must get back to John! John! __**John!**_

John burst through the door, when he heard his name being called so desperately. Sherlock stared blankly into nothing, tears running silently down his cheeks.

"Sherlock?" He carefully asked, taking a small step towards his friend. At the sound of his name, Sherlock jerked his head in John's direction. But when he saw, who it was, he whimpered and jumped towards the opposite wall to get as far away from John as possible. John held both his hands up with his palms facing Sherlock, to gesture that he didn't come to hurt him.

"It's alright, Sherlock. It's alright" he said as he took small steps towards the frightened detective. Never had he seen him look so small and fragile.

"No! Don't come any closer! Stay away!" Sherlock yelled frantically. John stopped, but didn't move away.

"Sherlock? What happened? Tell me" he said in a low, gentle tone, as though he was speaking to a frightened child.

"You- you-!" Sherlock pointed an accusing finger towards John.

"You called me a - I'm a -" before Sherlock could finish the heartbreaking sentence, John hurried to cut him of.

"No, don't say you are! Don't you _dare_! I didn't mean it! I was angry, and I shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry, Sherlock, I really am! There's nothing I regret more than saying that" as he spoke he kneeled in front of Sherlock, getting closer to him, but not quite touching him. Sherlock quieted down, but still didn't look entirely at John, or stop the steady flow of his tears.

"Listen, Sherlock. You're _not_ a - You're _brilliant_! Amazing! The most wisest and bravest man, I've ever met! You're my best friend! And I'm sorry - _truly_ sorry - that I have caused you so much pain. Please - _please_ - forgive me" John was now crying as well, scared that Sherlock would be left broken because of him.

Sherlock didn't answer to John's apology, and John took the opportunity to get closer. Sherlock flinched, but didn't move, so John pulled the too thin man into a tight embrace. At first Sherlock was stiff, but then calmed as John stroke his hear, and whispered 'I'm sorry' in his ear. They held each other tightly, as though they would never let go.

When they had both finished crying, Sherlock returned to be the Sherlock Holmes John knew and _loved_. But that's another story.


End file.
